"We are going to give Miranda a drink," said the poet; "she is drier
than ever. Let there be no strangers--my brother Adolphe, my brother
Theodose! What is your secret woe, Theo? Your face is as long as this
Spaniard's novel, Adolphe, have you a recipe in your pocket for the
hump?"

"Perhaps monsieur Goujaud will join us in a glass of beer?" said
Petitpas very coldly.

"There are more unlikely things than that!" affirmed the painter; and
when the cafe was entered, he swallowed his bock like one who has a
void to fill. "The fact is," he confided to the group, "I was about to
celebrate the Reveillon on a bench. That insolent landlord of mine has
kicked me out."

"And you will not get inside," said Tricotrin, "'not you, nor I, nor
any other of your vagabond friends. So there!' I had the privilege of
conversing with your concierge earlier in the evening."

"Ah, then, you know all about it. Well, now that I have run across you,
you can give me a shakedown in your attic. Good business!"

"I discern only one drawback to the scheme," said Pitou; "we haven't
any attic. It must be something in the air--all the landlords seem to
have the same complaint."

"But if you decide in the bench's favour, after all, you may pillow
your curls on Miranda," put in Tricotrin. "She would be exhilarating
company for him, Adolphe, hein? What do you think?" He murmured aside,